Oysters
by Estoma
Summary: "You don't need an aphrodisiac." For the lovely C, on her birthday. Now with a bonus scene.
1. Oysters

**Author's note: For the lovely C on her birthday. Prepare yourself to be smothered smut and fluff, easy on the plot. I hope you enjoy it xxx**

**Prompt: Precious, from the Panem Challenge in Caesar's Palace forum. **

Light spills through the glass double doors with their gold plated handles. It illuminates the three, wide marble steps, picking out the silvery veins in the stone, imported from District 2.

Down the steps trails a runner of red carpet, ending on the footpath where an avox in a white uniform waits. Sleek cars frequently pull up and spill their occupants onto the red carpet. Like a flock of tropical birds, they strut up to the marble steps, flanked by crouching camera-men. At the door, they pause and turn. Some offer the cameras a kiss or a wink before a pair of avoxes in silken gloves open the doors, leaving no marks on the gilt handles.

With a soft purr, a limousine pulls up and slows smoothly to a halt. The door is promptly opened by the avox and the cameras flash at a frequency which is blinding. Finnick Odair has worn sunglasses for this reason.

With a gait that suggests he spends a lot of time on boats, Finnick paces steadily to the doors. Reporters call out to him.

"What do you think about your tribute's chances in the games?"

"Who's waiting in these for you?"

"What's your relationship with Claudius Templesmith?"

Finnick pauses in the open doors and the light from behind makes a bright nimbus of his hair. He takes his sunglasses off and shoots the pack of cameras a grin before stepping inside.

Shrugging off his jacket, Finnick glances behind him at the continued flashes of the cameras.

"Mr. Odair, if you'll follow me." The maître d' appears at his elbow and gestures for him to follow. An avox draws back the heavy tapestry that forms a screen between the foyer and the main room of the restaurant. The maître d' ushers Finnick through, past two men in dark suits, flanking the archway. They look like they could have been careers in their younger days.

From somewhere near at hand, there is the tiny click of a camera button and the maître d' stiffens. He gestures to one of the security guards, mouthing, "Probably the woman from _Capitol Culture_ again."

Once the drapes are drawn back over the entrance, the atmosphere changes quickly. The main room is dimly lit, in fact, most of the light comes from the screen which dominates the far wall, and the small electric candles on the tables.

No sound from outside penetrates the room. After all, District 14 caters to the Capitol's elite, and they demand privacy, once they've had their chance to flaunt their newest outfits, of course.

There are at least twenty small tables and a few larger ones. Luxurious, private booths line one of the walls, screened by the same midnight blue tapestries. All the tables, draped in silk of the same colour, are occupied.

A large table, seating at least a dozen people is set in the centre of the room. At the head of it sits a girl no older than ten. Her headdress adds a foot to her heights and the tendons in her neck stand out with the strain of holding it up. Her head tilts back to balance the weight.

It is her birthday, though none of the guests are her own age. They all have the look of businessmen. The girl certainly isn't smiling, or talking to any of them. The only testament it is her birthday is the cake that towers four feet above the table. It is a monumental creation of pink meringue, spun sugar and crystalized violets, as tall as the girl. Her headdress is just a smaller copy of the cake.

Finnick enjoys being here for one reason; most people are important enough not to stare at him. They do not throw themselves at him as he passes their tables, nor do they clamor for an autograph or a photo. Most greet him with a simple nod and smile; they're proud they can do that to Finnick Odair.

Scanning the room, Finnick sees who else is here tonight. Other victors are easy to pick out for their more simple dress code. Cashmere wears plain silver, with a plunging neckline and her hair is piled on the top of her head. Her date is dressed in the clothes of a bygone era. A stiff, lace collar encircles his throat and a full, magenta cape hangs from his shoulder and pools on the floor. Beside Cashmere's simple elegance, her date looks like a clown. Regardless of this, her dress and his cape will still end up on his bedroom floor tonight.

* * *

Cinna twirls the stem of his champagne flute between his fingers while he watches the entrance. Realizing what he's doing, he stops abruptly, and set the glass down so firmly that a few drops of champagne splash over the rim. They cut through the condensation of the glass.

Taking a deep breath, Cinna turns to look at the dominating screen. But while his body is turned to the screen, he can't help but keep glancing over his shoulder.

Nothing very interesting is happening on the screen now. It is a lull in the games, but of course it won't last long. Cinna tries to give it his attention, but it's only the brute from District 2, navigating his way up a steep corridor of jumbled rock. Cinna can appreciate the fluidity and obvious strength in his movements, but this is the boy who killed both the tributes Cinna designed a costume for, in the same day.

For his first year as a stylist, Cinna was given District 8. He disguised the little girl's thin limbs beneath wide, graceful sleeves, stitched together of countless patches of fabric. The boy from District 2 snapped her neck and dropped her like a discarded piece of thread.

She was such a sweet girl, too. Cinna's glad when the screen changes to show the blonde boy from District 1 stopping where a small waterfall cascades over the lip of a rock.

Shaking his head to clear it, Cinna focuses on the trickling water. His first year as a stylist has been a success, apart from both his tributes being killed. His gowns were well received, and that was what counts. Maybe in a few years, he'll be transferred to a better district. Everyone wants a career district; everyone wants a winner because it means more chances to show off their designs.

In his mind, Cinna designs an outfit for the lithe boy on screen, if her were to win. He pictures a pale blue suit and a white, silken shirt beneath. When he thinks of a victory outfit for District 2, Cinna images something grey like stone, or perhaps the dark red of congealing blood.

"You're Cinna, aren't you?"

"Yes, and you're Finnick Odair!" He stands, hurriedly, knocking back his chair and reaches out a hand. But his fingers clip the champagne flute and it teeters before toppling off the table with a silvery tinkle. When champagne splashes onto Finnick's shoes, and the bottom of his slacks, Cinna clasps a hand to his mouth.

"I'm so sorry, I-"

"It's okay." Finnick signals a passing waiter and reaches for two more glasses. He shoots Cinna a quick smile and passes him a glass. Where Finnick's fingers brush his, his skin tingles furiously. Cinna doesn't drink all night for fear of spilling it again.

"Have you ordered yet?" Finnick asks.

"No, have you?" Cinna asks, then blushes deeply. Luckily his dark tone does much to hide the flush to his cheeks.

With a small smile, Finnick shakes his head. He looks like he's trying not to laugh. "Would you recommend anything?"

"Ah, I've never been here before." Cinna wipes his hands on his slacks, glad the dark color conceals the sweat.

"Well, in that case, you should have the lobster," Finnick suggests.

"Of course," Cinna agrees. He would have eaten dry bread had Finnick suggested it. The first thing he did when his chariot costume received four stars from _Capitol Culture_ was to put his name on the waiting list for a date with Finnick Odair.

"Would you, would you like a starter?" Cinna asks, and takes a deep breath. "Oysters maybe? They're meant to be an aphrodisiac…" Astounded by his own audacity, Cinna trails off and stares fixedly down at his lap. He only looks up at Finnick's quiet cough.

"Oh, you don't need an aphrodisiac."

Cinna stutters out his order and hopes the food will not arrive too soon. He studies the young man across the table and can't begin to imagine the costumes he could design for him. The thought of draping soft silks over Finnick's torso and around his hips brings on another uncomfortable flush. It's hard to believe Finnick is the same age as some of the older tributes in this year's games.

"So, you're a stylist?" Finnick asks, meeting Cinna's eyes.

"Yes, yes, I'm a stylist. I design dresses, and suits and…" Cinna takes a breath to calm himself. "I designed for District 8 this year."

"I know. Your opening night dress was really nice."

"Thank you."

"Sorry about your tributes," Finnick says, looking down at his lap. Cinna itches to reach over the table and tilt his chin back up to meet his eyes again.

"One of yours is doing well, Bara, isn't it?"

"He's going to make the final two," Finnick says. When he sets his jaw, Cinna catches a glimpse of the boy who won the games four years ago. His hands clench as if around a pencil and Cinna wants to capture that look.

The lobster arrives, nestled orange amongst a bed of sorrel.

"I suppose in District 4 you eat these all the time," Cinna says, wondering how to tackle it. He picks up a knife but doesn't move to use it.

"Now way!" Finnick says quickly. Then he hesitates. "I mean, we sell most of what we catch to the Capitol. We eat the plain sorts of fish mostly."

"I see." Cinna blushes again, though he's not quite sure why.

"Can I help you with it?" Finnick asks. At Cinna's grateful smile, he leans over and cracks the hard shell to reveal the soft, white flesh underneath. His hands, glistening with the oily, salty sauce the lobster is drizzled in, brush Cinna's for a moment.

"Thank you," Cinna smiles. Finnick's words run through his mind. _You don't need an aphrodisiac. _

When the dessert arrives it is a mass of meringue and cream, heaped with strawberries, blackberries, blueberries and raspberries. There is one bowl and they each lean close to reach it. Each time their spoons clink, Cinna feels it like a tingle that spreads up from his fingers. He grins when Finnick misses a dab of cream on his upper lip.

"You've got a bit…" Cinna gestures to it.

"Oh, do you want to get it for me?"

"Sorry?" For a wild moment, Cinna wants to lick the cream off Finnick's lips, but he blots it with a napkin instead. _You don't need an aphrodisiac. _This close, Cinna can see the flecs of blue as well as green in Finnick's eyes. It would take hours to mix the pains to do them justice. For a moment, Finnick holds Cinna's hand against his lips and he can feel him smiling.

When the check is placed on the table in a small, silver dish, Cinna's shoulders slump despondently. He doesn't want the date to end.

"It's been really nice, Finnick," Cinna sighs. "I've enjoyed meeting you."

"Me too," Finnick smiles. "So, are we going back to your place now?"

Flustered and pleased all at once, Cinna opens his mouth but nothing comes out. He swallows. "Yes, if you want to."

"Sure. I'd like to see your place."

"Well, I'd love it then," Cinna smiles, "just don't feel you have to. We pay you for dinner dates, that's all."

Finnick shoots him a strange look, drawing his brows together. "Maybe you can show me some of your sketches?"

* * *

With a smooth click, Cinna opens the door and a light comes on, activated by the motion. It illuminates the hallway and its clean, white walls. Though there is nothing incriminating, Cinna feels glances around self consciously.

"Here, I'll take your jacket," Cinna offers.

He hangs his jacket, and Finnick's, running his hands down the smooth fabric until it hangs without a crease. He feels Finnick's lingering warmth. When he turns around, the young man is gone.

"Finnick?"

"In here."

In Cinna's classic taste, the living room is rather minimal. A grey, suede couch graces the center of the room and Finnick sprawls on it, one hand behind his head.

"What are you doing?" Cinna asks.

"Waiting for you."

Cinna can't help but notice the way Finnick's pale, blue shirt gapes open as he slides over to make room. His chest is waxed as smooth as a child's. Cinna feels an uncomfortable tightening in his groin and perches nervously on the arm of the couch. Finnick slides closer and leans his head on Cinna's arm.

"I'll get my sketchbook!" Cinna jumps up hastily, mentally cursing his body's blatant reaction to the feeling of Finnick's hair against his shoulder.

In his neatly ordered workroom, Cinna shuts the door and leans his forehead against the cool, polished wood. Different swatches of fabric are piled on the desk according to color and size, and a mannequin in the corner is draped in a swathe of jade green gossamer.

Taking a few deep breaths, Cinna picks up a worn, leather sketchbook and walks back to the living room. He nearly drops the book and then his hands cling to it, like a lifeline, until his knuckles are white. He brings it in front of his treacherous groin.

"Finnick, wh-what are you doing?" The young man is sprawled on the couch still, but his clothes are folded neatly on the glass coffee table.

"Waiting for you," Finnick says again as if it were obvious.

Cinna breathes in sharply. _You don't need an aphrodisiac. _He feels as if he shouldn't look, but he can't resist appraising Finnick's young body with an artist's eye, and something more. For once, he's not imagining drawing him in a costume.

He's so lean, but his cheeks haven't quite lost the fullness of youth. Cinna runs his eyes down the clean lines of Finnick's limbs, lingers over his flat stomach. Cinna feels a tug deep in his gut when he looks over Finnick's flaccid cock and he tears his eyes away.

"Really, what are you doing, Finnick?"

"Don't you-don't you want me?" There is a trace of fear in his voice and Cinna can't place it.

"Of course I do!" Cinna splutters. "But-but, we've had one date. Isn't that a bit soon for….this?"

Again, Finnick shoots him that confused look and gets gracefully to his feet. Studiously, Cinna looks down at his sketchbook as he feels Finnick's breath on the back of his neck. When he reaches around to take the book from his hands, Cinna quivers, feeling the young man's body pressed against his back.

Carefully, Finnick places the book on his folded clothes. "I'll look at it later."

"You're so young," Cinna mumbles, half heartedly.

"I'm eighteen," Finnick says. "You're not much older."

Cinna doesn't realize he's backing away until he feels the couch against his lower back. Finnick follows him, pacing so gracefully, Cinna can't help but stare.

"Why are you acting so nervous?" Finnick asks.

"I-I don't really know," Cinna says faintly. "I suppose I didn't think you'd want to…"

"You're funny," Finnick says simply, playing these games like you don't know."

"Don't know-" Cinna stops abruptly when Finnick leans down to kiss him. He leans weakly against the couch and for a moment he doesn't even breathe.

"Sorry," Finnick chuckles, drawing away. "I couldn't wait, what were you saying?"

"I have no idea," Cinna whispers faintly. Almost unconsciously, he leans toward Finnick again, and he his shocked and overjoyed all at once when the younger man leans down to meet his lips again. _You don't need an aphrodisiac._

Closing his eyes, Cinna opens his lips for Finnick's tongue and suppresses a whimper of desire. Finnick doesn't break the kiss, but he reaches down to place Cinna's hands on his back, one at a time. He puts his own hand behind Cinna' head, tangling his fingers in Cinna's tight curls and tilts his head for a better angle. Cinna's eyes fly open, but all he can see is a blurred impression of Finnick's golden eyelashes and he sighs softly.

Finnick presses forward, harder, and Cinna can feel the shape of him against his body. Leaning dangerously over the edge of the couch, Cinna clings tighter to Finnick's shoulders, feeling the muscles shift under his fingers.

In a tangle of limbs, they tumble back onto the couch and Cinna gasps, opening his eyes.

"Sorry, couldn't help it," Finnick says. He straddles Cinna, and looking up, meeting his eyes, Cinna has no complaint. He holds perfectly still, afraid that if he moves, Finnick will melt away.

"I think you're still nervous," Finnick laughs a little. He leans down to punctuate each word with a light kiss to Cinna's throat, and it makes him squirm. "I don't think you should be."

Tentatively, Cinna extracts his hands from under Finnick's knees and brings them up to caress his smooth skin. He traces his way up Finnick's back, feeling the vertebrae in his spine. Slowly, he lets his fingers stroke his hair. He feels the soft texture and smells something like coconut. When Finnick kisses the tender spot under his earlobe, Cinna tightens his hands involuntarily in his hair.

"Sorry," Cinna whispers. For a moment, he holds his breath, fearing he's offended the boy, because Finnick climbs off him and kneels next to the couch. He meets his eyes seriously.

"You can do whatever you want."

"I can?" Cinna breathes. Finnick nods solemnly.

Rolling over onto his side, Cinna props himself on one elbow and reaches out to touch Finnick's face. He runs a finger down his cheek and across his smooth jaw. With shaking hands, Cinna traces Finnick's eyebrows, down his nose and finally touches his lips. Holding his fingers there, he quivers as Finnick smiles against them, and gently sucks his index finger.

Looking down at Finnick on his knees, Cinna swallows thickly. "I have no idea why you decided to come back here," he whispers.

With a slight chuckle, Finnick shakes his head. Still on his knees, he shuffles down and reaches to slide Cinna's shoe off his foot, then his sock. It makes Cinna curl his toes when Finnick strokes the sole of his foot.

"Are you undressing me?"

"Isn't it time?" Finnick slides off the second shoe and places it neatly on the floor, rolling the sock into the toe.

"Yes, yes I suppose…" Cinna replies weakly.

Sitting up, Cinna lets Finnick slide his shirt off his shoulders, and fold it carefully beside the shoes. A tremor runs through his whole body when Finnick splays his hand flat on his chest. His skin is warm and roughened, and Cinna can feel every callous.

Impulsively, with heart beating fast, he takes Finnick's hand and turns it over to bare his palm. Cinna kisses it, and then the delicate skin at his wrist, noticing the faint tracery of veins. He moves up the inside of Finnick's arm to his elbow. Steeling himself, Cinna sees Finnick looking at him with a bemused expression.

"You're really nice," Finnick whispers.

"I can't believe you're real," Cinna whispers back.

Soon, Cinna's slacks are folded on the floor and when Finnick's fingers slip under the waist band of his underwear, Cinna's breath hitches.

"You okay?" Finnick takes his hands away and reaches up to kiss Cinna, softer this time. He rests one hand on Cinna's bare knee, and the other on his shoulder.

"Sorry, you're right, I am a bit nervous," Cinna admits.

"You don't have a _problem_, do you?" Finnick asks with a teasing glint in his eye.

"N-no," Cinna chokes out. "Just, can I be honest? I haven't done it many times."

Finnick sits back on his heels and a slow smile spreads across his face. He holds up his finger and thumb in a circle. "This many times, huh?"

Cinna nods wordlessly and breaks his gaze.

"And you're so old!" Finnick teases.

"You said I wasn't much older than you!" Cinna cries, a dark flush spreading across his cheeks again.

"Sorry," Finnick says, stretching up to kiss his nose.

"Well, when did you, you know…?"

"Fourteen, nearly fifteen," Finnick says.

Cinna isn't sure if Finnick's joking. "I hope…whoever it was….cared about you then."

"Yeh, sure."

Cinna is worried by the tone of his voice, but he stops thinking about it when Finnick's thumbs slide under the waistband of his underwear again. This time, Cinna holds his breath and lifts his hips enough for Finnick to slide them off. He feels a shiver build throughout his body.

"Really, Cinna, don't be nervous," Finnick murmurs.

"You don't mind that, that I'm, you know…?"

"Innocent?" Finnick supplies.

"You put it so nicely."

* * *

Every nerve seems to be supersensitive tonight. Cinna lets Finnick push him back against the couch and settle himself on his lap. Finnick's skin is warm and smooth against his own, and goose bumps rise swiftly where he's touched.

Finnick's hands are never still. They explore Cinna's hair, his neck, and he even twines his fingers in Cinna's. He puts Cinna's hands on his back again and Cinna finds the courage to tangle his fingers in Finnick's hair once more.

The younger man pushes him further back against the couch and Cinna surprises himself by pushing back, craving more contact with Finnick's skin. His hand slips even lower, to feel Finnick's firm arse. Cinna can hardly believe his own courage.

When Finnick backs off the couch and crouches on his knees again, Cinna holds onto his shoulders. "Don't you stop," he whispers hoarsely.

Finnick makes no reply but to stroke one finger up Cinna's already hard dick and he represses a pleasurable shiver. Finnick follows it, bending down further, to lightly kiss the inside of his thighs before he runs his tongue all the way to Cinna's tip. When his hands tighten on Finnick's shoulders, Cinna's worried he'll leave a mark.

"Should we go to your bed?" Finnick suggests. When Cinna nods eagerly, Finnick takes his hand and leads the way. For a moment he wonders how the victor is so familiar with the layout of apartments like this, but it doesn't matter.

The bedroom is also laid out with Cinna's sparse taste. He does not have a screen against the wall like most people do, and the bed is low to the ground, covered in sheets of the same grey as the couch. There is little other furniture save the cupboards set into the cream walls.

Sitting down on his bed, Cinna is nervous again. He folds his hands in his lap and watches Finnick stand by the window. The lights from the street cast his shadow far back into the room.

"These should be closed," Finnick says firmly, drawing the dull silvery curtains across the window. He runs the fabric between his fingers before letting it fall back in soft ripples. "Your house is so nice."

"Thank you," Cinna ducks his head. He has goosebumps on his skin, but the apartment is quite warm.

"You're much nicer than other people," Finnick continues.

"Who are these other people, Finnick?"

"It doesn't matter." He turns away from the window and Cinna can't help but respond to his smile.

Cinna is relieved when Finnick doesn't turn off the light. He wants to keep looking. Finnick's weight is comfortable on top of him, and Cinna explores his body with his hands too. Running his hands down Finnick's back, he feels the tensed muscles ripple under his skin. Cinna knows what he will be drawing tomorrow.

Finnick backs off enough to plant a light, teasing kiss at the hollow of his throat, and the lower, across his chest and stomach. Cinna squirms in anticipation.

"Are you still nervous, Cinna?" Finnick asks.

"No, not so much." He likes the way that Finnick says his name; his district drawl stretches all the vowels out until his name sounds new and exotic.

"Good." Finnick seems pleased with himself. He licks his lips teasingly and Cinna raises his head off the bed to try to see what he's doing. When he feels Finnick's tongue slide up the length of his cock, he lets his head drop and twists his fists in the sheets and tries to stop himself crying out.

Faintly, Cinna hears Finnick's soft laugh, but then he can't keep himself quiet as Finnick sucks, hard. Cinna reaches down to put his hands on Finnick's head, urging him on, and pushing him further down each time. He doesn't seem to mind.

"Finnick, I need….something…." Cinna gasps out.

"I know, I'll be back," Finnick says, panting slightly, "don't move."

It's agony for Cinna to wait, but he does as Finnick asks and he doesn't move a muscle. It's an exquisite torture to hold off like this, and he resists the urge to touch himself. Putting his hands beneath his back, he waits.

When Finnick comes back, he lies down next to Cinna and kisses the back of his neck. Finnick rolls over onto his stomach, handing Cinna a bottle of lube.

"That's what you want," Finnick says.

Cinna makes no move to take it. He swallows. "Finnick, I'm not sure, I don't think I'd really know how…" Giving himself time to collect his thoughts, Cinna plants a soft kiss on Finnick's shoulder blade. "And I'd rather you enjoyed yourself."

"Is that what you want?" Finnick asks dubiously.

"Yes."

Finnick turns his head to look at Cinna, his expression a little confused again. "Okay. You're going to enjoy it anyway, I promise."

"I trust you," Cinna murmured.

"Roll over a bit," Finnick says, nudging him onto his side. Cinna holds his breath and does as he asks. He quivers pleasurably when Finnick runs his hand down from his shoulder to his arse and stops there. "You're not too…nervous?"

"No," Cinna answers with more surety than he feels.

Finnick takes his hand away for a moment, and Cinna hears him unscrewing the lid off a bottle. "You can tell me to stop, if you want. We can do something else."

Cinna naturally moves his leg out of the way, and he feels so exposed. But Finnick's skin is still warm against his and he feels safe. He catches the faint smell of coconut, and Finnick sits up, putting one hand on Cinna's hip.

It doesn't hurt like he's expecting it to. There's a moment of discomfit, but then Finnick's finger finds the sensitive spot inside him and Cinna cries out unintentionally. He pushes his hips back against Finnick's hand, craving more. Finnick acquiesces.

Cinna screws his eyes up and his breaths are shallow. He can hardy make himself speak. "Come on…."

Finnick pulls away and leans forward to kiss Cinna's neck again. They're both sweaty by now. He guides Cinna up onto his hands and knees and Cinna quivers with excitement and anticipation, breathing heavily.

This time, it does hurt a bit, but Cinna forgets it, because Finnick hits that spot again, and leans over him, so they're as close as they can get. He reaches one hand around and grips the base of Cinna's dick, moving his hand up in time with the movement of his hips.

"Finnick!" Cinna gasps.

"You…alright?" Finnick asks. For the first time, his voice is a bit strained, and he's breathing hard too.

"You're….so….precious…" Cinna pants out. He's torn; he wants to reach the peak he can feel coming, but he doesn't want this to finish. But he knows it's inevitable and for once in his life, Cinna, the designer, Cinna the astute professional, lets go.

* * *

The noise from his fellow party guests makes it nearly impossible to speak. Caesar Flickerman is well known for throwing some of the best parties every year. Excusing himself from his host, Cinna breaks away to the balcony to get some fresh air.

He leans against the rails and looks down at the traffic, six stories below. The entire walls of some of the skyscrapers have been turned into screens in honor of the final three tributes. Their faces are projected everywhere he looks.

"Getting too much in there?"

Cinna starts, and turns around quickly. "Portia," he smiles, "just a bit too noisy. Maybe I need another drink."

She too leans on the rail, leaning her back on it to turn and face him with a cheeky grin. "I hear you had a good night with Finnick Odair."

If not for his dark skin, Cinna's cheeks would be aflame. "Yes," he says, unable to repress a smile, "he wanted to come back to my apartment. He-he stayed the night."

"Go on, what was _the _Finnick Odair like?"

"He was….nice. I couldn't believe he wanted to come home with me."

Portia opens her mouth and stares at him with her feathered eyebrows drawn together in confusion. And then she laughs. "I'm sure he 'wanted' to."

"What do you mean?"

"Cinna, darling, honestly, how can you not know, you paid for it."

"I paid for dinner with him. That's the deal, isn't it?"

"Cinna," Portia shakes her head, "did you really think you paid that much just for dinner?"

Cinna's hands desperately cling to the rail. "Portia, I don't feel well."


	2. Bonus Scene

**Author's note: Here is a lovely bonus scene for you. **

When he wakes, Cinna can tell it's early morning from the soft light filtering through the chink in the curtains. With a thrill that travels through his body, he remembers that Finnick drew those curtains last night.

Breathing softly, making as little noise as possible, Cinna rolls over and props himself on his elbow. Finnick is asleep still, with the silvery sheets tangled around his waist, leaving his chest and most of one leg bare. He looks younger asleep, much younger than eighteen, and for a moment Cinna feels a flash of guilt at what they did together.

Gently, he smoothes the sheets down so they cover him properly, tracing his fingers over the soft skin of Finnick's thigh. The young man doesn't stir.

As quietly as he can, Cinna reaches for the sketch book that always waits on his bedside table. Frequently, he has ideas in the night. With a simple stick of charcoal, he begins to trace the firm lines of Finnick's jaw, his cheeks, still round with youth, and his tangled hair, covering one eye. In the dim light, it's hard to get the small details perfect, like the way his eyelashes make delicate shadows on his cheeks, but for Cinna, the portrait has more depth this way.

When he's done, Cinna slips out of bed to order breakfast, stopping to drop a feather-light kiss on Finnick's cheek. He wonders what Finnick likes to eat, and a soft smile spreads across his face as Cinna looks forward to finding out everything about him.


End file.
